


Tales Behind the Scribbles

by Fen_Assan



Series: Notice Board Stories [1]
Category: The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt - Fandom, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventures, Everyday Life, Geralts Meets People and Hears Their Stories, Multi, No Spoilers, Notice Boards, Some Fluff, Some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-05-22 07:09:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6069946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Geralt, visiting a settlement usually starts with reading the messages left on the notice board. Those are the source of Witcher contracts, useful information, news, and stories. Because every little scribble on parchment holds its tale. </p><p>This is going to be a spoiler-free series of usually unconnected short chapters, exploring the stories behind the notices you can read in The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skellige - Spikeroog

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is another Witcher fic I'm attempting. I just love reading those notices in-game, and I've often wanted to know more about what they said. So I decided to write some of those stories.  
> This is not beta'ed, because it just happened in my head, and I was too impatient to share it. :)  
> I appreciate all and any feedback, so please let me know what you think.  
> Hope you enjoy.

Geralt woke up in his boat. Well, "his" was a bit of an exaggeration, as he had "borrowed" it from no one in particular at Ard Skellig about a week before. He had needed it for a contract, and he was fully intent on returning it to its unknown owner once he was back. He was not yet back on High Skellig though.

Having hacked off the head of a water hag for a trophy and a proof of successfully completing the Witcher contract, he had thrown the said head into the boat, and decided to stay out at sea. He was not sure what exactly had come over him, if it was just the time spent on Skellige working its magic on him, but he had felt the irresistible allure and pull of the open sea. He had had to go out there, steer the boat jolting over the waves, icy water spraying in his face, and the sun, having broken through the clouds the next instant, warming him with its gentle rays, as if rewarding him for braving the waters like a true Skelliger - brave and fierce and honest. It had indeed felt empowering: catching the wind in his sails, avoiding the traps of shallow waters between small islets, diving for smugglers' caches, and fighting off sirens to get to hidden treasures.

His little adventure had turned into days and days of scavenger hunting at sea. He had sailed, fought, swam, fished, fought again. He had been wet more than dry, and his lips were chapped, and his knuckles raw as he had filled the boat with trophies, and treasures, and all kinds of loot.

He would say he had turned back because the boat was near overburdened. But if pressed - though there were few who would venture to press a Witcher into answering unnecessary questions - he would admit he had realized he was not a true Skelliger after all. It was not that the charm had worn off, but he had had enough. The weather had turned sour two days back while he was too far out at sea, and he had been drenched ever since, unable to start a fire to warm himself. He had had enough of sleeping on the rocking boat as the rough seas were tossing him about like a toy, rattling the swords, armour and trinkets he had collected. He had had enough of his long white hair being plastered to his face or his neck all the time. The fact that the lower part of his head was shaved did not help in the least, and he had been forced to tie it in some sort of a bun with a piece of cord, just to get rid of it before it drove him mad. Must have looked utterly ridiculous and undignified. He sighed. The relief of being on dry land again was palpable.

He jumped out of the boat, stretched his legs and cracked his neck and his back, turning from side to side. Suddenly remembering the undignified business of his hair, he dug his fingers into it, crouching slightly for some reason, as if that would make him invisible for the locals going about their business in the harbour. He quickly untied the cord, freeing his tangled up hair and, annoyed, tried to tie it back into a decent pony tail. The attempt resulted in relative success. He sat on the stones, suddenly tired, and sighed, pressing his elbows onto his knees.

"I don't want to know what Yen would have to say to all this." He wondered if she knew. He was in fact never sure how far the sorceress' power extended.

The Witcher got up to his feet, picked all the most valuable items, shoving them into a sack, and used some canvas to cover the rest of the loot in the boat. Not that he had much trust in the effectiveness of such measures, but it seemed the right thing to do. He knew he had to be on Spikeroog island, a supposedly quiet place, and few people he had seen in the harbour showed no hostility. On the contrary, as he started out, hauling a sack behind his back, towards the closest village, some fishermen greeted him heartily.

The men told him the village was that of Svorlag, and that it was complete with an inn and a shop, and even boasted its very own blacksmith and an armourer. The fishermen lamented the limited level of service he could get from the smith, but praised the local brew in the inn. They parted on friendly terms, Geralt promising them a pint of the said brew if they happened to meet in the tavern.

He would find the blacksmith first and try to sell the swords and whatever else he was willing to take off Geralt's hands. The smith turned out to be quite young, but with big strong hands that had clearly seen both craft and battle. He was hammering a simple sword on his anvil, letting the sweat drop from his brow. When he noticed Geralt, the man stopped and wiped his forehead with his forearm. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, so the only effect he achieved was that of smudging the sweat over his arm and the soot over his forehead. He smiled openly.

"Welcome! You look like someone who knows a thing or two about weapons." The smith gestured at the hilts of two swords showing behind Geralt's back. "I'm Hjalvar." The Witcher nodded and shook the young man's extended hand, wondering if the joke was intentional. 

"Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher. Thought you might be interested in some things I'd like to sell." He lowered the sack to the ground with relative care and undid the ties. The smith ploughed through the contents with his huge hands, at times nodding approvingly, and at other times squinting at Geralt curiously, but never commenting aloud.

Hjalvar bought most of what Geralt had, overjoyed about a few runes and plates of various metals that he would be able to melt down and use for reforging. The man suggested his colleague, Bronan the armourer, might take interest in the almost complete set of Nilfgaardian armour he himself had not chosen to buy.

"Do you know if there's any work for a Witcher around here?" Geralt enquired, tightening his now fatter coin purse. Hjalvar scratched his head as if in doubt and finally answered with a shrug of his bulky shoulders.

"There might be," he sighed before continuing, avoiding the Witcher's gaze, and looking preoccupied with the dirt beneath his feet for a moment. "You'll have to ask Bronan. He's been blaberring about ghosts and necrophages and whatnot. I'm sure it's rubbish. Nothing a couple of strong lads can't solve. But you might want to check," he shrugged again, facing Geralt.

"Don't seem to like Bronan much, do you?" The Witcher felt he had hit the tender spot when Hjalvar widened his stance and crossed his arms on his chest. Despite his quite formidable bearing, the smith's face showed a vulnerability. Geralt's Witcher senses picked up the vibration of pulse on the young man's neck as his heart started racing.

"There's this lass," Hjalvar started. "I don't dislike Bronan. But we're both trying to win her favour."

"Ah, I see," Geralt nodded. "Good luck with the lady. You seem a fine lad. Don't see why she won't choose you." The blacksmith visibly appreciated Geralt's praise and well wishes. He stuck out his chest a bit more, and extended his hand for a parting handshake.

"Thank you, Geralt. See you around if you decide to stay a bit. Maybe have a drink, or play a round of cards in the inn tonight." The Witcher nodded, squeezing his hand.

"I think I'll be staying a while."

His next destination would be the inn - he wanted some freshly-cooked food at a bench by the hearth to warm his bones. He was dry now, but he still felt the chill in his bones born of the worst kind of cold - the wet one. A good fight would fix that, but just now he much preferred a warm meal in a warm tavern. 

It was his lucky day - he would not have to eat fish, which had been his staple and also exclusive diet for the past week at least. The innkeeper had slaughtered a sheep that morning, and Geralt was enjoying a thick stew. He wanted to savour it, he truly did, but he found himself gobbling it up, working the spoon at an impressive speed, and burning his tongue in the process. He ordered another portion right after he finished the first bowl. A cheerful serving girl nodded and smiled with understanding.

Now that he had another steaming bowl of stew with meat cooked so well it fell off the bone, carrots and potatoes peeking out of the broth, Geralt could relax. And so he did. He sat, resting his elbows on the table, breaking off small pieces of freshly baked hot bread, allowing steam to escape from the middle of the loaf. He pressed the soft bread between his fingers, shaping it into a cube or a ball, and then sent it flying into his mouth. He smiled softly, remembering how he used to make bread figures with Ciri when she was little, against all Vesemir's warnings not to play with food.

The fire in the hearth made of stone slabs was warming, he was full, and the quiet atmosphere of the tavern with few patrons speaking softly between themselves began to lull him to sleep. He shook his head, catching it before it landed in the bowl, and stood up. The innkeeper waved at him with a big smile as he was leaving - he paid well and made no trouble - a good customer by all accounts.

Outside, he stood with his legs wide and his fists tucked into his hips, and took a deep breath. This village on the craggy coastline was a beautiful place - cradled between the plentiful waters of the bay and the rocky mountains capped with snow, with pine trees dotting the place with emerald green. The Witcher looked around, taking in the view, and set out down the dirt-and-stone steps towards the harbour. He had been told that was where he would find the notice board - the hub of the village, where both locals and travellers gathered to share all their news. The notices people left comprised all aspects of life - there were announcements of the villagers' woes and celebrations, losses and achievements alike. He had been told there was a Witcher contract notice from Bronan.

The wooden boards skillfully decorated with carvings of what looked to Geralt like Gods of the Sea the locals venerated besides Freya, were filled with notes. Skimming through the parchments flattering in the wind coming from the sea, he found out, among other things, that the Druids asked the locals to refrain from fishing for tuna until the spawning season ended; and that a certain Fjola had had enough of menfolk whistling after her, and promised to punch the next one to do so in the gob. Bronan had turned out to be a wordy fellow. His notice was a long list of his suspicions about monster activities, his suggestions on how to act on the above-mentioned, and finally, the times and places of his usual whereabouts, should "a professional Witcher" find himself among the readers. For he wished to discuss the details personally. Geralt wondered what else the man had to say after such a seemingly complete report.

Having pocketed the notice, Geralt decided to stay right there, considering his potential contract giver was bound to appear in the harbour in the next couple of hours, if his given schedule was to be believed. The weather was nice enough, and he really could use some rest. He wondered if it was a sign of getting old - this needing rest thing. He exchanged a few words with a clan Brokvar guard, and having received his permission, moved two crates aside under the pine tree, and positioned them apart. He sat on one, leaning his back against the fragrant tree trunk, and settled his feet on the other. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed contentedly. The guard nodded at him, and continued to lean on his huge double headed battle axe. Geralt returned the gesture and closed his eyes, nodding off the same instant.

He woke up when the sun was warming his right cheek, telling him he had slept for at least two hours. He was still in the same position, and even though his legs felt a bit stiff, he did not move. He did not even open his eyes yet, for what had woken him up was not the sun. It was a noise - a low grunting and a soft scraping - that was coming from the direction of the notice board. It sounded like a child, but Geralt could not fathom what it was doing. Allowing his eyes to open out of curiosity, he saw a small boy, not older than 5, climbing one of the poles that held the notice board. He grunted with effort, reaching for a parchment, the one on top, grabbed it, darted a look around,and quickly hid it inside his shirt. The boy got down quicker, spurred by the excitement of his successful mission.

As soon as his bare feet were on the ground though, he had to double check, and dove his hand into the opening of his shirt to take out the parchment. That was when Geralt coughed gently right behind him.

"Hey, kid." The boy with mussed dark hair startled, shoved the notice back, and looked at the Witcher from below, his eyes shifty and his cheeks ruddy. "Why did you take it down? Were you told to?" The boy gave no answer, only kept biting his lower lip and looking at Geralt from below his furrowed little eyebrows. The Witcher sighed and crouched next to the child, extending an arm towards his shoulder. "Look, don't be afraid. I just thought it strange a kid would take down a notice, so I..."

He did not have a chance to finish, as the boy saw his opportunity in the Witcher's less stable position, swirled around from under his arm, and started running.

"You litlle..." Geralt muttered, as he got up to his feet. The kid was fast, but now the Witcher had to know what was going on, and he leapt after him. Of course, the kid ran up the hill, but that was not so much ill fate as just a matter of fact - the whole village lay on the hills, each next street up above. Shouting to stop obviously did not work, so Geralt just tried to keep up. Behind the last bend, he lost the boy for a moment, but his Witcher senses prodded him in the right direction. He saw the boy disappear behind a door of a house standing almost on a cliff edge. He caught his breath, and knocked on the door. No answer came, but the Witcher's hearing proved there was one person inside, breathing - panting.

"I'm coming in. I'll do you no harm. I just want to know what's going on." He creaked the door open a fraction, and when nothing happened, he pushed it ajar.

"This is my house," a small but fierce voice said from behind the barrels stacked in one corner, "you can't do anything to me here." Geralt stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed.

"I'm not going to. Come out, I just want to talk," he tried to make his voice sound friendlier. It took the boy a whole minute to come out. He had probably been hoping the strange man would go away, but that was not going to happen. Not before he found out what it was all about.

"Hi," he said, "I'm Geralt. What's your name?" The boy stared at him stubbornly for a while longer, then went to the table, sat on a bench on one side and gestured to one on the opposite side.

"Take a seat and be welcome in the home of Otryg an Brokvar. My name is Holgar." Geralt took the invitation.

"You are a good host, Holgar. Your parents taught you well. Where are they?" The boy's lips thinned, though at the praise or at the question, Geralt did not know.

"Our mother died, and da went to find Eist and bring him home."

"Hm. Are you alone here then?"

"No, he is not, stranger." The words were spoken as a threat. Even through the threat was coming from a young girl, about 13, who had Geralt' head at the point of her arrow. She was standing in the door he had left open. Geralt slowly lifted his arms, turning to face her fully.

"I apologize for the intrusion. I mean no harm. I'm here to talk. I'm Geralt. Holgar and I've just met." The girl darted the eyes the same colour as her brother's from the man to the boy, and when Holgar nodded, she lowered her bow, but did not put it away. She shut the door, came to sit at the head of the table, and placed the bow on the bench next to her. She looked confident, which meant she could probably have it up and drawn with an arrow nocked in a second.

"What are you doing here?" The girl asked without an introduction. She was a more cautious one, an older sister likely currently being the head of the family. The responsibility a child of her age should not have clearly showed on her face. Geralt held his empty hands on the table, in plain view.

"I followed Holgar from the notice board. He took down a parchment, and didn't want to answer why, so I thought he stole it. I wanted to find out." The girl pursed her lips and gave her little brother a warning look. She seemed aware what it was about, as she was not in the least surprised, rather slightly annoyed Holgar had been caught. The boy looked at his sister, then at Geralt, then stuck his slightly shivering chin out, and pulled the parchment from his shirt. He set it on the table and drilled his dark eyes into Geralt's yellow slits.

"We need it. I took it, but I'll put it back. We always do," he sad half daring, half indignant. Geralt raised his eyebrows. He did not understand. This did not seem like a prank, but he could not get to the meaning of this borrowing the notices.

"What do you need it for?" The boy unwrapped the parchment almost with veneration and pressed it open, holding the opposite sides with his hands. He stared at the scribbles, and his mouth started moving soundlessly. As if catching himself, he suddenly stopped and looked at Geralt again.

"Birna's teaching me to read." His sister shushed at him, apparently cross the boy had disclosed her name to the stranger. "We have no books and no money to buy them, but I want to know how to read. I already can, too. I take notices, the longest ones, but it ain't stealing. We read them, and I learn my letters, and I take them back. Well, Birna does. She's taller and she can put them back up when no one's looking."

Geralt felt a pang in his chest. The stories about Witcher mutations leaving them bereft of all feelings were not quite true, not in his case anyway. He thought of Ciri again, as a child. He wanted, no, he needed to help these kids. He looked at the sister, giving her a tentative little smile as an offering of friendship.

"That's a nice thing you're doing for your brother, Birna." The girl just stood, half-nodded, and disappeared behind the barrels. She came back a moment later with some apples and nuts she put in a bowl in the middle of the table. Holgar grabbed an apple and immediately sank his teeth into it, crinkling his nose at its apparent sourness. Birna pushed the bowl towards Geralt, and their eyes met. She held his gaze without fear or fierceness now. She was not exactly friendly, but at least no longer hostile. 

"You're a guest. Help yourself." She crossed her arms, as if daring him to refuse. The Witcher thanked her and took the greenest apple. The juice sprayed him in the eye as soon as he bit it, and damn was it sour. He chewed nonetheless, to the accompaniment of the children's ringing laughter at him trying to comically blink the juice out of his eye. 

"I like sour apples," he straight out lied, bracing himself not to shiver because of the taste. "Look," he tried to change the topic, "when is your father coming back? He's a fisherman, right? I have a deal to offer him." Geralt had noticed the nets hanging outside the house, and the rods and hooks on the wall inside. Birna bristled anew.

"What kind of deal would that be?" Before giving him a chance to answer, she went on. "Or are you gong to say it's a grown-ups' business? Da's not coming back just yet anyway, so you can't speak to him. If you have a deal, speak to me." There she was - vulnerable, daring, gutsy young girl, who possessed the acceptance of responsibilities that should not be laid on her yet. She was worth admiring.

"Fine," agreed Geralt. "I need a job done, which might take more time than I can stay here. I thought of asking your father, but you two might be able to help me. See, I have a boat here with some...things. Loot." He realized he had to speak openly with these kids. They knew the raiding too well not to realize what those things were. "It's nothing stolen, I promise, no one will come for it. If I left it with you, would you try to sell some for me? You'd keep some money as a reward, of course. And I could get you some books, too." Holgar was near to bouncing in his seat with anticipation, while Birna eyed Geralt cautiously.

"We need to see it first, and we need to agree on the sum beforehand. Do you have any books in your boat?"

"There should be one or two, if they survived. It was all pretty wet after the storm hit. But I'll gladly help you get others, as thanks for your help." The girl still did not look convinced it was a fair exchange. She must have had an inkling he was trying to help them without hurting their dignity, and she seemed to be in conflict with herself about whether to accept it or not. She finally nodded.

"Yes!" Holgar beamed at them both, dangling his feet happily under the table. "Shall we go now? Or shall we read this one first?" He pressed the parchment with his palm carefully and hopefully.

"We need to go now, but reading will have to wait today, Holgar. I have to milk the goats and cook some dinner. You understand, don't you?" She brushed the boy's hair above his ear, lingering on his cheek for a second in a motherly gesture. He nodded, saddened, but understanding.

"I can help Holgar with reading, if you like," Geralt suggested, having cleared his throat, and looking at each child in turn. "I don't have anything else I need to be doing right now, and this notice seems quite interesting." Birna pinned him with a long intent look, and when he did not falter, she finally stated.

"On two conditions. You will show us your swords first, and stay for dinner." Geralt grinned at them.

"Gladly."


	2. Velen - Midcopse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept this G-rated, so just in case, here's a heads up on some swearing and alcohol in this chapter.   
> As before, it's all based on some notices you can see in-game, which are in no way connected to any actual quest, so no spoilers. Everyone besides Geralt (and his horse :) ) is an OC. 
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone, and I really appreciate the feedback, so please let me know what you think.  
> Hope you enjoy. :)

Geralt wondered again why he had decided to walk instead of riding. True enough, his tasks today were not far between, and Roach had been jumpy lately, the Witcher having to calm his mare with the Axii Sign more often than not. Travelling the tangled woods and barren lands of Velen would do that not only to a horse.

He had left Roach not too far, at a place that boasted a small tavern complete with the stables, complete in turn with hay and straw and water. Animals were treated well there, even Witchers were, provided they paid upfront and minded their own business. And that he had. The sum for board and lodgings had been ridiculous, but it had bought him a good night's sleep and a decent dinner. And now Roach was the one enjoying the inn's hospitality.

Geralt was trudging through the mud along not so much as a road, but a path leading to a village of Midcopse. No Man's Land was not precisely hospitable today, and he wondered if it would get any better once he reached the village. He saw it as the path curved to the right, presenting the sight - the place was so small one could see the whole village at once. Yet, it was one of the largest settlements in those parts.

The Witcher followed a well-trodden path towards the pond, which in this weather looked like it could have been just a huge puddle that never managed to dry up. When Geralt neared it though, the water proved to be clear, if only dark grey on this overcast afternoon, it's surface mercilessly pierced by rain.

Geralt stopped by a shrine - not to pray, for he held no faith in any gods - but to examine, to learn, to notice. He had seen it from a distance, and knew right then what it was. As the wooden statue depicted only one woman, it could not have been Melitele, but something drew him to it nonetheless. Probably, the macabre satisfaction of seeing something quite horrible. The carved wooden effigy showed a tall, bony woman with long hair falling over her shoulders. There was nothing terrible about it seen this way, but he knew more than well where the prayers to the Ladies of the Wood that the local cult worshipped, could lead. There were no offerings by the weathered effigy, only a few candles, which had no chance of burning in this rain. That little defiance of the weather made the corner of Geralt's mouth twitch with a ghost of a smile.

Moving on, he noticed yellow outside and bright orange from the inside petals of moleyarrow, and bent to pick the flowers absentmindedly. When he had the fragile drenched blossoms in his hand, he almost felt sorry he had picked them - they probably were the brightest thing around there at the moment. Well, it was too late now. He sighed and shook the water off the flowers, opening his pack to store them away.

"Are you picking those for your lady?" The voice belonged to a little girl, who stood between Geralt and the pond, watching him with interest, her hands clasped behind her back. The Witcher could not ignore his senses, and he simply accepted the information as it flowed from a simple glance at a small human. She was wearing a marginally clean dress, which had likely been perfectly clean that very morning, but it was a rainy day, and children had to jump around in puddles. Her blonde hair was unruly, he could see how her mother tried to braid it every morning, but a few strands always stayed free, fluttering around her face in the wind and getting in her mouth when she spoke. Her mother did not have time to braid her daughter's hair several times a day. The girl looked healthy, by the current standards of war-ridden and famished Velen, she was well-fed. He wondered if her mother was, or if all the family had was reserved for the kids. And she was open, believing, and curious instead of frightened. The village had not seen any actual fighting, and the girl did not recoil from an unknown man carrying two swords and a crossbow on his back. She did not even recoil when she saw his eyes. Geralt smiled and crouched down.

"My lady?" The girl nodded, catching a wisp of her hair between her fingers and biting its end.

"You're old, you gotta have a lady, not a lass." Her statement coaxed a smile from the Witcher. The child was either confused by his white hair and beard, or wise beyond her years and able to see his age in his eyes. 

"No, it's not for her. I'll use them to brew a potion, to help me see better in the dark." She considered the information for a while, and nodded, apparently having reached an agreement with herself.

"Our cat goes outside to hunt mice at night, I bet he needs to see well in the dark. Your eyes are just like his, I guess you do things like he does. And does she not like flowers?" The girl's logic, her manner of jumping between thoughts and topics inquisitively and without pause, as well as her good mood, were definitely brightening up Geralt's day.

"She does, but she prefers purple ones, the colour of her eyes." The girl gave him a slightly scornful look first, lifting one light brow and scrunching her nose.

"No one has purple eyes." Then, after a few moments, "Does she really? Like lilac?"

"Mhm," Geralt did not remember the last time he had smiled for so long at a time, "Just like lilac." She grinned, apparently finding joy in the unusual beauty of "his lady". "And what are you doing alone outside the village?" The girl shrugged.

"I think someone's nicked my dolly. Or maybe I just lost her. So I came to look. What's her name?" It took Geralt a second to realise she was not asking him about her own doll.

"Yennefer," he uttered, his voice almost breaking unexpectedly.

"That's a pretty name. I bet she's really pretty. What's yours? I'm Tama."

"I'm Geralt." He watched the girl approach him and extend her hand for a handshake with utter astonishment. He shook it with all seriousness and gentleness, holding her tiny hand with barely two of his fingers and a thumb.

"And what about you, Geralt?" She cocked her head waiting for his response, but this time he had definitely lost Tama's train of thought and had not a slightest idea what she was asking about. His raised brows and confused expression made her explain. "What are you doing here, silly? Not just picking flowers not for your lady, are you?" He smirked. The girl had a spirit to his liking.

"I'm looking for Witcher work. I..." He doubted if he should tell the child more, but decided it was better she knew the truth. "I kill monsters. And help people in other ways." He expected to see fear or disgust on the little face at the mention of monsters and killing, but he saw a sparkle in her widened eyes instead as she gasped.

"So you can help me find my dolly?" He smiled as his chest tightened. He should say no. There were villages infested with ghouls, and forests plagued by leshens, he should see if they needed help here, the kind he could provide, and leave. And what were the chances of finding a doll? The girl might have dropped it, or another child might have taken it, or it could just be lying somewhere under her bed unnoticed by anyone. He should bot promise.

"Of course. I'll keep an eye out for it." Fuck.

"Tamara!" The shrill in the woman's voice identified her as the girl's mother. And indeed, when he looked up, a thin woman, her still young face creased with the life full of hardship and worry, was running towards them, holding her skirts up with one hand.

Tamara made no move, she just watched her mother with a smile on her face, which was soon wiped off as she noticed the woman's expression. The woman grabbed her daughter's hand and pulled her close with a jerk that shocked Tamara. The girl could not understand how she had deserved such treatment.

"What've I told you about going outside the village alone? And talking to strange men? Do you know what could've happened to you? You have no idea who this man is, what he could have done. Men like him, they...snatch little children!" Tama's eyes went wide just as her mouth gaped open, not with fear, but with defiance, as her mother pulled her towards the village, without as much as saying a word or sparing a glance in the Witcher's direction.

"But I know! It's Geralt, and he helps people!" There was a teary note ringing in her voice. Geralt got up to his feet, a heavy weight in his chest.

"I meant no harm, I'm sorry," he almost shouted after the woman who was quickly putting distance between them. "And we don't," he started, but was interrupted by the woman turning to truly face him for the first time. The combination of disgust, fear and mistrust made him stop. "Snatch children. Not anymore," he finished under his breath, so only himself could hear.

He rubbed the heels of his hands over his face and pressed them to his eyes, breathing out slowly to calm himself. He was used be being met with scorn and fear, sometimes even from the very people he helped, but it still got to him. Tamara's mother might have been an exception in the village, but he rather believed little Tama was. Anyway, he was there, so it made no sense to turn back without checking. He would ask about, see if there was any work for a Witcher.

Once he stepped inside the village, it was in fact not so bad. There were side looks and whispers and muttering, of course, but there was no open hostility at least. Some only looked wary of an unknown face ridden with scars, fearing a Nilfgaardian spy in every stranger. Others though knew the meaning of the two swords aligned behind his back and the wolf head medallion peeking out of the armour on his chest. Witcher. Mutant, some whispered.

Luckily, there was a notice board nearby, just a couple of wooden houses with thatched roofs away. A small group of women were working by its side, and they had such an air of having things firmly in their hands, it rather seemed that the notice board was placed next to them and not the other way round. Two of them were washing the laundry in well-used wooden troughs, while another was dusting a rug hung on the rail, hitting it with a thick stick. The rain, which still persisted, seemed to absorb the clouds of dust that emerged from the rug, even though Geralt was not sure the dirt did not just settle back on it in a more solidified form. At least the rain helped with washing, eliminating the need to fetch clean water, thus making the women's hard work a bit easier.

They greeted him politely, and he nodded in both recognition and appreciation. The board held a few pieces of parchment, kept almost dry by the tiny roof-like planks above it. There seemed to be nothing urgent, nothing that required his skills. Someone was looking for work, happy to do any job for the meals. Another lamented the much scarcer offerings and prayers to the Ladies of the Wood and warned of their imminent wrath. There was no indication of a Witcher contract, and Geralt was ready to leave, when the announcement entitled "Old Milly's gone mad" caught his attention - on a quick read something just did not sit right with him.

It informed the villagers that a certain Old Milly had lost his wits, and turned to running around in his nighties, yelling lewdities and smearing mudpies on passers-by. The anonymous well-wisher advised to steer clear of Milly's place, especially when one was wearing freshly laundered dress.

It could have been nothing - just that, a man who had lost his mind; there were enough reasons to in this world now after all. But it could also have been a curse. And that was something he might be able to fix. He knew no one was asking for his assistance, and these people were so piss-poor, even if he did something to help them, there would not be a material reward. But it would not be the first time he worked for free, against Witchers' rules, and at times against his own better judgement. If he could help, he was willing to try.

The three women had a civil enough reaction to his enquiry, and even advised him against his plan to check out Milly's place. They believed he had indeed simply lost his mind, and there was nothing else to it. They shrugged their shoulders, but they did tell him where to find Milly.

The house was on the other side of the village, but here it only meant a few minutes walk. He easily recognized the rickety wooden fence with a lopsided gate the women had described. Atop the house roof though there was a weathercock which looked brand new. Geralt had long before stopped wondering about the oddities of people's priorities.

The yard was empty, so he let himself in through the open gate, but paused to listen as he reached the house door. The sounds indicated there was one person inside, and they seemed to be doing something peaceful enough. He knocked. All movement inside seized for a moment, and then the person - a man - tiptoed to the door and pressed his ear to the other side. Geralt could hear the man's heartbeat and breathing clearly, while he knew the human heard not a thing. The Witcher kept standing right there, silent, waiting. He knew it was likely to make the man inside jumpy enough to open the door. Nothing happened for another half a minute, and then a whisper came from behind the door.

"Who is it?" The Witcher waited another ten seconds before replying, and heard a soft click of a latch being lifted with care.

"A Witcher. No one else would be likely to hear what you said." His words were accompanied by a gasp and a scurrying noise from the house.

"Let me in. I won't harm you." When nothing happened, he pushed the door slightly, and it opened with a weak creaking noise of old wood. "I'm Geralt. I'm here to speak with Old Milly. I might be able to help him." The house was dark inside, there had been a few candles lit before, but he could see and smell the wisps of smoke snaking up from them - the man had blown them out in a hurry, seeking refuge in the dark. But even if Geralt could not see well enough now, the smell - sweat, piss, and fear - would lead him straight behind the ladder in the other room, where the man was crouched, hiding, his pulse drumming, loud and clear for the Witcher's ears. He held off for now, lighting the candles anew with a simple and elegant gesture of the Igni Sign.

"Maybe Old Milly doesn't wanna talk to any Geralts." The voice came from the other room, streaked in equal measure with panic, disappointment, and defeat.

" 'Maybe' means there's a good chance he does," retorted Geralt calmly. "Come out, I'm not leaving until we've spoken." He had seen enough madmen in his life - from peasants losing their mind to grief to kings submitting to madness from power. He knew what to expect.

He settled on a bench by the messy table and waited. He ended up waiting for quite a bit, too. When the man finally showed his face, it took the Witcher by surprise.

"You Old Milly?" He enquired, squinting his yellow eyes and forming an Axii Sign with his hand under the table. The man only nodded. Geralt returned both hands where they could be seen, empty, unarmed, but no less dangerous nonetheless. "I expected you to be...older. Sit, let's talk." Old Milly, who turned out to be no older than 30 or 35 years, shuffled towards the bench opposite Geralt with such an expression as if he was on his way to be executed. In all honesty, the Witcher knew that option was open as well.

"Why do they call you Old Milly?" He needed to have the man talking, needed time to examine him properly, look for signs of either madness or a curse. And he was also curious in fact. Old Milly was wearing a dirty, once-white nightgown tucked into worn-out and full of holes trousers on one side only. He had some other clothing loosely tied around his neck, and it took Geralt a while to figure out that was another pair of trousers, the legs tied together. Hmm.

"They'll be calling me Crazy Old Milly soon enough, you'll see!" The man shook his index finger at Geralt threateningly. The Witcher crossed his arms on his chest and, deeply regretting the lack of a backrest on the bench, changed his mind and leant forward, resting his forearms on the table.

"Mhm. And why is that?" The villager shot up to stand, bulged his eyes to the maximum, grabbed a trouser leg around his neck in each hand and stretched them to opposite sides, yelling unintelligibly and spitting in the process.

" 'Cause that's what I am, crazy, that's why!" He stuck his tongue out, twisting it as his head twitched from side to side. Geralt watched him impassively, true to the nature of Witchers that common folk believed, showing no emotion at all.

"Stop bulging those eyes or they'll pop out. And sit down before you hurt yourself." It was clear enough the display of madness was just that - a show. There was none of the disturbance of the mind seeping through wild, shifty eyes, that the truly insane would not be able to hide. This man took pains to parade his "handicap" for all to see and believe. Old Milly spit and wriggled some more, but at seeing Geralt's truly unimpressed face, he gave up and sat down, stood up again only to return to the table with a bottle of an unidentified opaque liquid. He poured some in a greasy glass and lifted the bottle questioningly at Geralt. The Witcher shook his head.

"So why the show, Old Milly?" The man downed the judging by the smell home-made vodka, wiped his mouth with a ditry sleeve and set his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands.

"Old Milly's a nickname. Liked it better than Dumb Milly. The name's Miloslav. Why are you here?" He finally looked at Geralt with weary and defeated eyes.

"Read the notice saying you went mad and figured it could be a curse I can lift. Count me a concerned citizen. I can see there's neither madness nor curse at work here. Care to explain why you want people to believe you're insane?" Miloslav poured himself another glass of the apparently extremely strong spirit, as he had to sniff the sleeve on his arm having drunk it, but it did not stop his eyes from tearing up and his whole body from shivering.

"Don't see why not tell you, Witcher. I never was smart, they all know that," he waved to include the whole village. "But they don't know I never was brave neither. I was afeared my whole life, but I hid it well. And then the war came." He poured another glass, and this time Geralt nodded his agreement to partake. "I knew a conscription man'd come. I was young, healthy, strong even. They'd take me. I couldn't... I just couldn't. So I became this," he pointed at himself with something akin to disgust - his light brown hair tangled up in a nest complete with twigs and dried leaves, his nightclothes stained with piss and mud, his hands dirty, nails long and curved.

"What will you do now, Witcher?" Geralt downed the shot of vodka which tasted just as bad as it looked and smelt, and slammed the glass on the table.

"Me? Nothing. Not every problem of a human is mine to solve." In truth, he had to remind himself of that more often. He had been known to bite a lot more than he could chew at one time. Geralt could understand Miloslav's despare, he understood fear better than most. But this man's demons were his own to battle.

"Witcher? You said you thought I was cursed. Can you tell the village I was?" His answer was a curt shaking of the Witcher's head.

"Not about to lie for you. Not because I abhor lying. Just don't see what it'd change, what good you could be for the village." Miloslav nodded solemnly in agreement and defeat. "And what good it could be for you." The man looked up, disbelief clear in his eyes at someone showing they cared for his fate. Someone who had no reason to care. In truth, Miloslav probably did not believe anybody cared.

"I am useless. I know no craft and I'm not good at anything. I've only been making everyone's life here more difficult, when it's already tough as it is."

"How long have you been putting up this show?" Geralt's tone held no accusation, simple curiosity. A tiny, completely devoid of wickedness smile flickered across Miloslav's face as he dug his fingers into his hair and scratched his scalp.

"A few years now." It was something done for a detestable cause, but the Witcher had to admit it must have taken dedication and even not a small amount of work to keep up those appearances.

"Well that's..." Geralt hesitated about the wording, "impressive. In it's own weird and twisted way. Wouldn't go that far as to call it a talent, but seems you do have some skill after all." He could see Miloslav confused by the conflicting emotions of being condemned and praised at the same time. "Ever thought about acting?" The villager did not answer the question as such, but his response was clear as day.

"You think I could be good at it?" The man was eager, his eyes glistening now with a flicker of hope and genuine interest.

"Passable. I've seen worse perform on stage, even in Novigrad." One would think Miloslav had just received the highest praise in his whole life from how his face immediately lit up with joy.

"I think I could do it. I think it's something I could be good at. Will you help me, Witcher? Geralt?" It was funny how people suddenly remembered a Witcher's name when they realized he could be of help to them. He suppressed a sigh.

"If you think I'm about to recite verses with you, you truly are crackbrained after all." Geralt shot him a look that would send some men trembling, a self-proclaimed craven for sure. But he only blinked hurriedly a few times and swallowed hard before continuing.

"No, not that. I wanna leave. There's no life for me here, and no one will be sorry. I would go somewhere, to a town maybe, try to join a troupe. Will you take me to Novigrad?"

"Well that escalated quickly," Geralt muttered, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head. Miloslav apparently already saw himself on stage, wooing the audience.

"I'll pay you!" He exclaimed, as if remembering to give an offer no Witcher could refuse. Well fuck that.

"With what? Fucking rhymes?" The man, eyes wide with fervour, shook his head vigorously.

"I have the coin! My old man left me some, it's all yours!"

"Forget it. You can't buy everything with coin." Geralt stood up and started readjusting his swords, preparing to leave. He deliberately avoided Miloslav's face, but the man left him no choice when he dropped on his knees in front of the Witcher.

"Please," he begged. "Witchers..." Seeing the snarl on Geralt's face at the beginning of what would definitely be an unwelcome reminder of what Witchers' duties were, Miloslav swallowed the rest of that sentence. "I really need your help."

"Get the fuck up," Gerald growled, and Miloslav did as he was told with impressive speed. "And use your fucking money to buy a fucking horse." He glowered at the man, who was clasping a fistful of his nightclothes in one hand, while giving the Witcher a confused look. "I'll return in three days. On the fourth, at dawn, I'll be waiting for you by the pond, mounted and packed and ready to leave. If you aren't there, I'll leave and not come back again." Understanding dawned on Miloslav, if his profuse elated nodding and clasping his hands together were to be taken for an indication. "No reciting on the way."

"Thank you, Geralt, thank you. You won't regret this." He was following the Witcher closely, smiling like a hopeful fool he was. But he just might have a chance to actually do something with his life. Geralt felt Miloslav push something into his hands as he was pulling the door open.

"See ya," he nodded and left. Outside he saw the darkness had already fallen, but the skies had cleared up and allowed the near-full moon to shine its cold light on the ground. He looked at his hands and saw three apples. The first impulse was to throw them far and high to vent off his frustration. But his common sense took over. He shoved two apples into his small pack, glossed the third by rubbing it on the cleanest part of his sleeve, and sank his teeth into it with a juicy crunch.

"What have I gotten myself into?" He muttered gruffly, but he knew the answer was clear - he was going to help because he could, and because he believed there was hope there. He was still annoyed at himself for changing the plans to not return to Novigrad just yet though, and the safest way to let it out was by kicking a large lump of clay and earth that lay on the muddy path. He sent it flying with a swing of his right foot, the hard tip of his boot breaking it off into smaller pieces. There was something that caught his eye among those chunks, as it did not fall the same way others did.

He came closer and bent to look, his hand stretching before he even realized it, to pick up a thin, caked with mud, but whole ragdoll.

"Well who would have thunk," he sad to himself, trying to get some dirt off the doll. Its skirt was made of the same fabric as the dress Tamara had been wearing that afternoon. Their house was the last one he would pass leaving the village.

It was not too late yet, but he knew farmers went to sleep early as a rule. There was a possibility the mother had some mending to do that would keep her awake though. He knocked on their door softly, and the answer in the form of a question came straight away.

"Who's there?" A worried woman's voice, Tama's mother.

"It's Geralt, the Witcher. I found your daughter's doll, I think. Do you want me to leave it at the door?" There was a silence, as if the woman did not expect any of what he had said, and thus had trouble understanding it. Then the door creaked open, first just a fraction, then enough to see the woman behind it. She made no move to go out or let him in, and just stood there as if frozen in place. Geralt gently handed her the doll, and she took it, trying to hide that she was avoiding his fingers.

"It is Tama's. She'll be so happy," the woman whispered sadly as she ran her fingers along the toy, flaking some mud off with her nails. She looked up. "We've nothing to thank you." He shook his head.

"I wouldn't take anything. Witchers don't charge for every single speck of a good thing we do. Just...don't raise your kids in fear of us." He regretted his last sentence as soon as it left his lips, but the woman made a move to stop him. She lifted her hand but did not dare touch his arm as her intention was, and grasped the doll instead.

"She's not, Tama. She never was afraid of you." Geralt could see the continuation she wanted to but would not utter, in her eyes - it was her who was afraid.

"Thank you. Tama will remember you fondly." He nodded and turned to leave. "And I will too," she added in a whisper. He might have been an old fool to do so, but he believed her.

***

It was not yet dawn of the fourth day when Geralt hushed Roach, who was being impatient and kicking the ground with her front hoof. He moved towards the central path into the village just shy of the entrance. He could see a man riding a dark brown gelding from there. He knew who it was, but it took him a moment to recognize Miloslav nonetheless. His hair was cut short, and he was wearing clean clothes which looked almost new. The would-be actor beamed when he noticed the Witcher.

Geralt pressed his index finger to his lips, urging Miloslav to be quiet, and turned to mount Roach. As he swung his left leg up, he snuck a look at the first house on the right side of the only street. He froze for an instant, but then the illusion proved to be real. Little Tama was grinning at him from a window, bouncing and waving her tiny hands. She then disappeared, and Geralt turned to nod to Miloslav.

"Let's go." He debated looking back, but he did, and there she was again - now waving her one hand and her doll in the other.


	3. Redania - Yantra

With every step, Geralt's boots lifted a cloud of dust off the bumpy old road: it had been a while since this soil had last seen rain. Farmers cursed the weather, but the Witcher welcomed the change that a clear sunny day in the Southern part of Redania brought from the bleak and soggy greyness of Velen where he had spent the last few weeks.

He remembered how by the end of their training, having force-fed the new Witchers hundreds of books, Vesemir had lent him a travel journal of his own composition. "This one's not about monsters. Well. Not really," the old man had said. Young Geralt could not believe the witty entries on different places around the Continent had been produced by his strict and tough old teacher. Vesemir's gritty sense of humour was better familiar now, and all the more precious the rarer the man let it show.

Memory was a fickle friend to Geralt, even now when he had regained it, some details still slipped from his grip. But he knew most entries Vesemir's journal by heart. "The inhabitants of this village are known for their talkativeness and a tendency to exaggerate, which makes them good companions for a round of drinks, but impossible to tolerate for long stretches of time." Yantra. 

Geralt had passed through the small village before, but never had a chance to prove Vesemir's observations true. For one, there was never a need for him to stay longer, he had never had a contract there. Besides, lacking an inn, or even a proper trader, the place itself as if meant to rush travellers off on their way. The locals showed no hostility though, on the contrary: Geralt's saunter through the fields of blooming potato plants and sunflowers was pleasant, the peasants' greetings friendly. _Maybe, it's just a good day today_ , the Witcher thought with caution. 

Leaving the fields behind, the road broke down into snakes of well-trodden paths leading towards each house. The Witcher wondered if it had been due to bad weather, but he could swear he had never noticed what a testament to craftsmanship most houses here were. They were not only of unusual for these parts pretty white and light blue, but someone's artistic hand had decorated them with symmetrical patterns of colourful flowers and peacocks. Geralt stood admiring the most intricately painted façade, nodding in appreciation. A left turn took him into the village green, which was a modestly wide area presided by the inevitable notice board.

"Now where did you get them catty peepers?" His eyes earned this greeting from a woman who was churning butter in front of a house. She grinned at him, squinting against the sun. He had all reason to classify the question as rhetorical, so he replied with a smile and a nod.

The board held only a couple of parchments, none of which were contracts, or pleas for help. At least not of the kind he could assist with. A farmer's emphatic promise to thrash those who make a shortcut treading through his fields; and a woman's call for a toothsome lass to wed her son, who "sorely needed a woman's hand to guide him." _Where his mother's hand is failing,_ Geralt smirked at the thought and shook his head.

"Master Witcher?" both respect and excitement coloured a woman's voice. He was fairly certain no one knew him there by name, but the two swords on his back and the Witcher medallion on his chest made no secret of his trade.

"Greetings," he tipped his head at the attractive young woman smiling at him broadly. Did he imagine that she had just given him a once-over?

"Would you like to come in for a drink?" Friendliness towards an unknown Witcher was rare enough in itself, but this degree of hospitality, or whatever it was, surpassed all expectations. Especially as Geralt currently had none of those.

"Hm. I mean, thank you. I...Do you have a need for a Witcher's services? Something I could help with?" She planted a hand on her shapely hip and gave it a sway.

"I can think of many needs you could help with." He had not imagined it. Now this was awkward. Two years ago, the invitation would have been more than enough to put him in bed with his woman. She was desirable, willing, and definitely not shy. Two years ago, when he had had no memory of Yen. Now, he admitted the woman's attractiveness, but he had no wish to act upon it. And he knew from experience a denied woman needed little time to become an enemy.

"I am sorry, I don't think I can be of service in that regard. You are beautiful, my lady, but I am bound..."

"Aniela!" A shrill in the man's voice betrayed the nervousness he tried to hide beneath his aggressive stomping towards them. "Aniela! Who is it you're talking to?" Aniela rolled her eyes and sighed disappointledly at Geralt before facing the man, a sweet but bored smile flicking over her features.

"This is a Witcher, my darling. Please meet...," she turned, her palm in the air as if holding an invisible offering.

"Geralt," he waited a second to calculate the man's reaction, and finally extended his hand. The man shook it, too hard, too awkwardly, with a clear wish to assert dominance, and an understanding that he did not possess what he wanted to assert.

"Pawel, my dear husband," Aniela provided the information necessary to fill in the gaps.

"Are you here on business, Master Geralt?" The hope that the Witcher would be out of his life and away from his young beautiful wife was evident.

"In fact, I'm here in passing. I only stopped to see if there was any job for a Witcher, but will be on my way." Pawel was content. He nodded and even smiled.

"Yes, it's all quiet here in Yantra."

"Quiet? And what about the wolves, dear husband?"

"Huh? Oh that was nothing. A few missing sheep and a gnawed leg. Not something to trouble a Witcher with, surely." The man's eyes were pleading as he turned to Geralt, having rightly assumed him an ally. But he also apparently knew his wife's appetite for dalliances, and hoped this new temptation would be removed from her at the earliest convenience. Geralt would remove himself gladly - he had no wish to get tangled in anyone's marital drama - but here his professionalism was at stake.

"You have trouble with wolves?"

"Yes, Geralt. We need your help," her husband's presence had no inhibiting effect on Aniela, and beads of nervous, helpless sweat started popping out on her poor spouse's face. "You should talk to Lucille." She went as far as to touch his arm, try to touch it anyway, as it was intercepted by her husband's halfway. Geralt coughed into a fist to hide his smirk of incredulity. He did not want to give an impression he was encouraging her, though deep inside, he admitted the attention felt flattering. He focused on another matter at hand. Leg. He would have to ask about whose leg had been gnawed, but it was better not to engage Aniela in further conversation for the sake of her husband's sanity. A thought occurred to him as he pondered his next move.

"Lucille? Is she by any chance the one looking for a wife for her son?" he pointed to the parchment inscribed by a careful and orderly hand that belonged to Lucille, if the signature was to be believed. 

"Oh, yes, Metty. That boy is quite hopeless, I'm afraid," the only meaning Geralt took from the faint smile of Aniela's was that she was uninterested in Metty herself. Might as well be for the better. "This is her house. I'll introduce you." The woman started off towards the largest house around, precisely the one fitted with flowers and birds on its light-blue walls that Geralt had admired before. Pawel, completely ignored by his wife, as apparently his unfortunate routine went, sighed and followed suit, nodding to Geralt.

The introductions were fortunately brief and to the point, as was Lucille: the lean, lively woman in her fifties jumped straight to business.

"I didn't see a contract for the wolves on your board," the Witcher stated as he made himself comfortable at the kitchen table Lucille had rushed him to, skilfully getting rid of the couple first.

"Well that's because there isn't one, dear. But don't worry, I'll make sure to collect the money for your fee from everyone," she smiled and wiped her perfectly clean and dry hands on her apron. She set both mead and ale on the table, and started filling it with food, without asking Geralt if he was even hungry. As it happened he was, so he proved his appreciation for the hospitality not simply by words, but by energetic munching on the crusty fresh bread and some fatty ham. His appetite and praise for the very well-prepared food pleased Lucille greatly, a wide smile wrinkling her face.

"So, besides the sheep disappearing, someone's also got attacked, right?" The Witcher took a gulp of ale and pressed a fist to his mouth, preventing a belch from escaping.

"Yes. Two boys were shepherding the flock when it happened. One managed to run away quickly enough, but the other got caught right before the sunflower fields near the village. He fell and a wolf grabbed him by his ankle. The boy started screaming so loud the men heard him and drove away the beast. Sweet Melitele preserve us." Lucille was apparently a better source of information in Yantra than the notice board. He nodded, and wanted to share his plan of actions, when she took the words out of his mouth.

"Your investigation would call for talking to the boys, of course, although I fear you won't get much from them: the poor souls were too scared to make sense of the events." Hmm. Geralt suppressed the urge to ask the woman to refrain from telling him how to do his job. The Witcher had not even met him yet, but already felt compassion for Lucille's son: she might have been looking for a woman like herself for her boy, and that was rarely a good thing.

"You shall stay in my house for the duration of the affairs, of course. You see, we have no inn in Yantra," she darted him a panicky look, as if she had offended him, and quickly added, "and Metty and I will be so happy to have you." She smiled pleasantly, leaving him little choice but to accept with gratitude. She waved him off though, as if it was nothing, but in the middle of wiping the table she stopped, sat on the bench opposite Geralt and gave him a grave look, folding the cloth neatly.

"You see, Master Geralt, I also have a personal favour to ask you," she unfolded the cloth only to go back to pressing it with her palms and folding it anew. "It's about my son, Metty. He...is in dire need of assistance. Please help him," she pleaded. The Witcher took a sip of his ale, very much hoping there was another problem Metty had, besides being unmarried.

"I..," he cleared his throat, feeling utterly stupid saying that, "saw your notice. I am a Witcher. I deal with monsters and beasts. I can't help your son find a wife." Lucille looked relieved as she gave a little chuckle and waved the cloth at him in a "silly Witcher" kind of gesture.

"No-no, I wouldn't think of asking you that, I have respect for your profession. But exactly because of your trade, you see..." She wrung her hands and started anew. "You are so strong and brave, you don't hesitate in the face of danger, you take upon yourself to help, to protect, you...you know how to be a man." She stared at him expectantly, as if her explanation made sense and all was clear. He drank more ale.

"I can't teach someone how to be a man."

"I know, I know. But you can be such good influence on him! He just sits there in his room, scribbling all day and staring out the window all night, contemplating creation and writing poetry." The force with which she spit out the last words told Geralt all he needed to know about Lucille's outlook on the situation. He started as if to shake his head, but nodded instead.

"I'll talk to him. But I make no promises in this matter." The woman beamed at him, the very image of delight.

***

However little he wanted to admit it, Lucille had been right about the boys. Their only testimony was "awful howling", "bloodshot eyes", and "huge fangs". The wound of the one attacked had partially healed, but was consistent with a bite of canine teeth. He would go out looking for the wolves tonight, which left him with hours upon hours and nothing to do. Nothing but talk to Metty. Geralt stood amid the fields, looking at the towers of Novigrad in the distance, cracked his neck, and headed for Lucille's home again.

Lucille was away, working the fields, so at least she would not chaperone the conversation on "how to be a man". The Witcher knocked on the door to the boy's room and waited. No response came, but his apt hearing discerned the scraping of a quill on parchment, accompanied by low mumbling. He knocked again, louder, waited for a few moments more, fruitlessly, and let himself in.

The room was neither messy, nor tidy: every surface was filled with books, ink pots and parchments - blank and filled, quills - used, broken, and feathers yet to be sharpened for writing. A young man of about twenty was sitting at a large desk in front of the window, his light brown hair mussed, fingertips stained with ink, his right hand flying up every so often to mark the rhythm by stabbing at the air as he checked if a rhyme was good enough. When satisfied, he rushed to write it down and repeat the line under his breath, tasting the words. He had no notion of Geralt's presence.

The Witcher looked around the room, pausing for a quick look at some pages filled with text, and coughed politely. Metty acknowledged a visitor without turning to see him.

"Just a moment! Mmm, ah-huh," he brought the quill up, almost biting on the feathery part but refraining from it at the last moment. " 'And if her meaning wasn't to torment,' then...hmm, torment... torment, relent? Lament?"

"A tough line?" Geralt enquired, tired of inactivity but also curious about the composition. Metty nodded, hardly looking up.

"Mm, yes. I need a good rhyme for "torment"."

"Well, if "gwent" won't do," the Witcher started, finally deserving a look from the young man - a tormented look at that, Geralt chuckled to himself, "then I suggest "augment"." Metty's face cringed at first, but soon his mouth open up in a smile and his eyebrows shot up in jubilant surprise.

"I know! ' _Although_ her meaning wasn't to torment, the pain will only their love augment!' Yes! I have it!" He scribbled the lines enthusiastically, blew on the parchment and set it aside, and finally stood up to face Geralt. "I appreciate your assistance," he jerked his head down in an exaggerated bow, the mop of his curly hair bouncing with the motion.

"I'm Geralt," he extended his hand: Metty's handshake proved to be firm. 

"I never thought mother'd go so far as to hire a Witcher to deal with me," he sounded both hurt and flattered. "Just what kind of a beast did she say I am?" 

"I was actually hired to deal with the wolves. This," Geralt gestured not at Metty but around the room, "was a personal favour she asked." The Witcher picked up one of the parchments lying on the bed, "Do you mind?" Metty blushed vigorously, but shook his head. He hardly had many readers, Geralt figured. He quickly skimmed through the lines, and turned a mockingly raised eyebrow at the younger man as he reached the bottom of the page. 

"Justian Arnold Rosencrantz Viscount de Yantraville?" The Witcher read, and the boy's flushed face turned beetroot red, but he crossed his arms and stuck his chin up, facing up to the challenge. 

"Well Metty Bisek would not exactly make publishers and readers intrigued, would it?" Geralt smirked. 

"Have any of those shown any interest in Viscount de Yantraville's creations?" Metty cleared his throat, and his cheeks changed colour yet again, to an orangy-pink hue this time. 

"Not as of now. I...in fact I haven't sent any writings to publishers yet. It is however my full intent." 

"And if your poetry is published, do you think Julian Alfred Pankratz Viscount de Lettenhove, in fact better known to most as simply Dandelion, would not mind you making a parody of his real name?" Metty made a perfect impersonation of a fish out of water, his mouth opening and closing and eyes bulging, as he flopped onto a chair. 

"You know the great minstrel's real name? You, a Witcher, an expert on rhetoric, of all liberal arts! How is that possible?!" 

"I'm also quite good at astronomy," the Witcher quipped irritably. It was annoying people regarded Witchers as only learned in the art of swordplay. "And Dandelion, that scoundrel just happens to be a friend of mine." Metty gaped at him with something akin to veneration now, and Geralt found it even more irritating. He seemed to have earned the boy's respect not for slaying terrible monsters or saving innocent lives, but for being friends with a famous bard. He scoffed at Metty's temporary speechlessness. He was so annoyed by this point, he wished Dandelion was right there, just so he could punch his smug face. It would not be proper to punch this young fool here. And Dandelion most probably did something to deserve a friendly punch anyway. He sighed. 

"Get yourself together," he snapped at the mostly undeserving of it Metty. "Just so you know, I'm not getting any of your writing to Dandelion: you want his opinion, contact him yourself." Contrary to Geralt's expectation, his warning delighted the young man. 

"Do you think he might read it?!" Geralt groaned and shook his head: this was starting to look like more trouble. 

"I have no idea what he might or might not read," he cursed under his breath seeing the sunken look on the poet's face, "but you can always try. Your work is... isn't hopeless." Before he could be interrupted, Geralt set to stir the conversation towards another topic. "So tell me, does Justian Arnold Rosencrantz have a girlfriend?" The young man chortled, but quickly assumed a serious face. 

"He could not possibly devote himself to such profane matters now, when he's preparing for his work to be published." There he must have remembered most of his work was not even finished yet, and added, "And is contemplating grave philosophical issues." 

"Mhm. Wanna help me investigate the wolf attacks? I'll gladly debate philosophy afterwards." 

"I-I I can't," the metaphysically inclined boy stuttered, "Wh-what would I even do? I have no skills for that." 

"Being a poet, I'm sure you're good at observation. And you know the place and the locals. That would come in handy." He looked a bit scared and still uncertain when he did, but Metty nodded, and finally squeezed a smile that held some excitement. 

His mother revelled at the sight of the two men strolling out of the house and towards the fields. Lucille was so impressed she had nothing to say as they announced their departure, and only shouted at their steadily disappearing backs that she would have dinner ready by the time they returned. 

They circled around a field of gentle potato plants, and Geralt headed to cross through the one filled with more robust sunflowers, as tall as himself, when Metty stopped him. 

"Let's go through the next field," he suggested. The Witcher would not think twice about it, had the younger man not avoided eye contact while sweating excessively. 

"What's wrong with this one?" The answer was Metty's hands fiddling with his belt, then the hem of his shirt, then rubbing at his neck and finally going through his thick hair. 

"Alright, kid, quit fidgeting and tell me what this is about," Geralt assumed an intimidating pose, his arms crossed, his face grave, and learnt Metty would not make a good spy: he would spill the beans at the second opportunity. 

"It's a secret place," he sighed. 

"It looks exceptionally non-secret to me," Geralt interjected, and Metty shook his head and heaved a heavy sigh. 

"There's a spot in the field where some come to rest, to lie in the sun. And such." Geralt's eyebrow arched in amusement. 

"Are you saying that's where the village frolicking happens?" 

"No, no! That happens a bit away, in the woods," he waved his hand in the right direction. "Only one girl comes here," he finally squeezed out and looked away, miffed. 

"Ah! So there is a girl after all," Geralt made an effort to make his smile look encouraging. 

"It's not like that. Malina just comes there to have a nap in the sun, where no one can see her, because... because it would not be decent if someone did." 

"And you know where she sunbathes naked because..?" The treacherous colour-changing blush returned to Metty's face, now also taking over his neck. 

"I found her there once, accidentally, and... I didn't do anything, I would never, I mean... she is my muse." Geralt smirked: the boy indeed envisaged himself a true poet. 

"Does sweet Malina know? Both that she inspires your literary creations and that you spy on her?" The boy hang his head and shook it. 

"It sounds awful when you say it like that." 

"Mhm. It does, doesn't it? A sin most men are guilty of committing at least once in their lives though." The confession cheered Metty up, but only an infinitesimally small amount. "You should ask her out. Talk to her at least. She might enjoy poetry - most young girls do. Especially if it is in fact written for them." 

"You think so?" 

"Mhm. You'd never guess how many maidens fell into Dandelion's arms...Ahem, that's probably not a good example." 

Metty led the Witcher to the place of the wolf's attack, explained where she herd and the shepherd boys had come from and where they had escaped. There was an extremely faint track to follow, which Geralt did on his own, having sent Metty to the edge of the fields to stand sentinel, where he was out of danger. 

Geralt found the source of trouble, and it was not a wolf. The threat for the village came from a pack of wild dogs. It took him some sweating to dispatch the rabid creatures, and he was certain there had to be more, but they did not allow themselves to be found. He would have to come back and check at sundown tomorrow, which meant he was staying the night in Yantra. 

A few hours later, having earned respect, admiration, and a feast-like supper from Lucille, Geralt and Metty were enjoying a drink outside the house. The evening was warm and quiet. A few passing locals sent friendly greetings their way and attempted staying for a chat, but soon got bored with the topic of conversation. Now, the only witnesses to the debate were three geese and a dog. 

"I don't see how you can attribute pathos of creation to the Conjunction of the Spheres," Geralt stated, throwing his head back to down a shot of vodka. 

"The Conjunction was an alignment, not destruction: it brought new creatures to our world, brought us, humans," Metty met Geralt's cat-like yellow eyes and corrected himself, "well, me, human." The Witcher shook his head. 

"For one, the absence of destruction does not equal creation. But that is of little consequence as those new creatures in fact did bring more violence: monsters have been plaguing the Continent ever since; humans have driven Elder Races to near ruin. This world is far from utopian beauty." 

"True, but real beauty is abundant, and even more intense among the destitution." 

"Hmm. You find beauty in Chaos?" Geralt enquired, pouring them both another shot. 

"You don't?" Geralt smirked at the young man's repartee. He did indeed see beauty when the forces of primordial chaos were at work. It was dangerous, heart-stopping in more sense than one, but beauty nonetheless. Smart boy, this poet. 

Two young girls on their slow walk passed them by: their arms locked, their hair freshly braided into neat thick plaits. Both had clearly changed into nicer clothes for the evening stroll. They whispered to each other and giggled while walking, but flashed open, friendly smiles and gave polite greetings as they went past. The girl with a long blond plait and brilliant blue eyes turned back and smiled again. Facing Metty, Geralt realised two things: one - he was still smiling himself, two - the beetroot flush was back on young poet's cheeks. 

"Was one of those Malina?" 

"Y-yes, the fair one," Metty nodded, stuttering. Geralt grinned at him. 

"I think she likes you. Did you see how she looked at you? Smiled? She even turned back to get another look. You should talk to her. Yantra is such a small village, I bet they're walking in circles here, so they'll be back soon. Am I right?" He got another nod, followed by a shake of head. 

"The-they will, probably. But I don't think she looked at me," the young man somewhat gained his composure now that he was apparently switching from excitement to disappointment. Geralt raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Women like you, Geralt. You're a Witcher, you're brave, you face dangers every day. There's this whiff of death, of conquering death about you. Women find that fascinating," the boy sipped his vodka with a melancholic look, apparently forgetting it was not a delicateToussaint wine, shook his head in disgust at the taste, and downed the remaining contents. "That, and strong arms," he added, slamming the glass on the table and giving Geralt's bulging biceps under his short-sleeved shirt a sour look. The Witcher smirked. 

"You seem to understand quite a bit about women already, son. I know men my age - and that, let me tell you, is a lot - who still haven't grasped half as much as you did. What I don't see is why you don't apply both your talents and your knowledge. As for arms, get on chopping wood: kill two birds with one stone." Metty sagged on the bench, propping his cheek with his hand. 

"Ah, my talents! What do I do with my poetry and my painting? I can't walk around throwing rhymes at girls!" 

"You paint?" Geeralt prepared to be taken to a dark cellar where Metty's exquisite oil paintings and watercolours were hidden from the eyes of strangers out of the boy's shyness. He was wrong. 

"Well, not paint like on canvas, I rather...decorate. Have you seen the painted houses in the village? I did that." 

"All of them?" 

"Yes. I painted ours first and people liked it, and some came to me and asked to paint theirs." 

"Is Malina's house painted?" 

"No, they're only just finishing the repairs: part of it got burnt down when their barn caught fire." 

"So it's a perfect opportunity to offer your help," Geralt stated. Metty opened his mouth to protest, but found nothing to say. "And you'll have a chance to do that in about two minutes. The girls are coming back." The poet jolted up on the bench, his eyes darted to the front door of the house, but Geralt shook his head: all escape routes were shut down. "I'll ask them to join us for a drink, then lead the other girl away, leave you alone." 

"No, no! Stay. It'll be easier to work up the courage if you can help me..., you know, if I stumble too much in conversation..." 

"Alright. But relax, you don't need rhymes for this. Not just yet," Geralt winked at him, and turned to address the girls. 

*** 

The Witcher woke up later than he normally would, but he allowed himself this luxury because of the late night - they had stayed talking and drinking on that bench with both girls for hours, Geralt eventually escorting Ana home while Metty took Malina for a walk. Besides, he had had a roof over his head that night, and a comfortable bed: he had long learnt to cherish such things while on the Path. The Witcher looked in the kitchen, but it was empty, save for the breakfast laid out on the table, covered with cloths: bread, hard-boiled eggs, and radishes. There was obviously enough food for two, so he went to check up on Metty. 

As before, the knock on the young man's door brought no answer. He pushed the door gently, leaving it only slightly ajar, and peeked inside. The poet was asleep at his desk, his face on a sheet of parchment, his fingers still gripping the quill, and his lips stretched in a smile. Geralt had his solitary breakfast, smiling to himself at the apparent success of young love. 

He went into the woods that day, eager to conclude the case of the wild dogs attacks. In truth, he liked it in Yantra. It was quiet, the locals were indeed talkative, but he was still able to bear them - he liked to think he was made of tougher stuff than Vesemir in that respect, but they were truly friendly. The place was yet untouched by the hardships of war, by famine, and loss, and betrayal. Their troubles were of everyday kind, and they made it peaceful, cosy even. That was one of the reasons he had to finish his business there and leave. He had to move on: it was not the time to settle down. If he would ever have a time and a chance to settle down at all. 

He found more dogs, more than he had expected. The pursuit of the pack took him far away from the village, and the fight exhausted him. But together with warming his blood, it cooled his head, returned him into the comfort zone of the familiar. It was early evening when, tired and hungry, Geralt trudged back to Yantra with a feeling of satisfaction for a job well done. 

One could see the bright yellow of the sunflower fields on the edges of the village from afar, and he was glad to see it. He decided he would go through the fields, to see how it felt, walking among the stalks as tall as himself, maybe even pick a few seeds - he was sure the farmers would not mind. Keeping the conversation with Metty from the night before in mind, he avoided the field which Malina favoured for her au naturel sunbathing, just in case. Stepping into the neighbouring field felt like stepping into another world: the low rays of sun did not reach beyond the big round sunflower heads, most of which hung low, heavy with ripe seeds. It was even quieter there. He could take one of the two paths through the field, only wide enough for one person walking carefully, but he picked his way zigzagging between the thick stalks instead, evading the rough, scratchy leaves. He made another turn, gently pushed a browning head of the plant away from his face, and froze. There they were, Metty and Malina, hiding in a sunflower field, completely taken by each other as their lips were locked in a kiss, oblivious of his presence. You are in the wrong field, Geralt thought a bit grumpily. He would tell them that, but he did not want to interrupt. He took a swift and soundless turn, and walked away in felinely quiet, precise steps. 

Lucille was waiting at the table outside by the front door. There was some sewing in her lap, but it looked more like a prop now. She got up as soon as she noticed the Witcher, smiled, then looked behind him, and smiled again, confused this time. 

"Master Geralt! Good day." 

"Indeed. I got rid of your problem. Those were not wolves, but wild dogs that attacked your shepherds. You won't have trouble from them any time soon though: I cleared up a large pack that was spread wide. Others might appear again in time, but not soon, I believe." The woman clasped her hands together and smiled. 

"Thank you! I knew I was right to place my trust in you!" Confusion replaced happiness in her expression again though. "Oh, but I thought Metty was with you. He's not at home, you see." Geralt smirked as he sat down and poured himself some water from the bucket Lucille had apparently just brought from the well - it was still ice cold. "Oh sweet Melitele, I'll get you some dinner, I have it ready, it'll only be a moment!" She disappeared into the house and returned with a simple tray filled with several pots. There were steaming boiled potatoes with aromatic dill, homemade sausages, and marinated mushrooms. Lucille removed the towels from the pots, and Geralt took a sniff, closing his eyes and chuckling at his stomach's demanding rumbling. The food smelt wonderful. He started putting a bit of everything into his plate, and the woman watched him, happy and proud, her hands crossed one over the other on the table. The Witcher held the first spoonful in front of his mouth, when he remembered he had not answered her question yet. He lowered the spoon longingly. 

"Metty," he explained, "was not with me today." The news did not seem to please Lucille, as her eyebrows knit together, so Geralt hurried to explain further, before he could finally take a bite of food. "I have good reason to think you can take off your notice though." The woman's hands fell limply to her lap just as her lips stretched in a beaming smile. 

"Ah," as Geralt sank his teeth into the potatoes, opening his mouth slightly and sucking in air not to burn himself, she brought the tiniest corner of her apron up to wipe at the single tear of happiness in her eye. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, everyone! I will continue with this kind of stories every once in a while, there are still announcements that scream to be written about, haha, but I'm also ready to take requests/promts for this. If you see a notice in Witcher 3 that you would like to read about, leave me a comment with its text and the location where you found it in game, and I'll do my best to make up a story about it for you. :)


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